


Young Americans

by eldweebo



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Fluff, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldweebo/pseuds/eldweebo
Summary: Star crossed lovers, minus the stars!Young, intelligent, neurotic, and devoid of any sort of symbiotic worm, Ezri Tigan is a psychology student in a prestigious New England university. She rents a room from Professor of Humanities Benjamin Sisko. She befriends his son, the writer. And, of course, she meets a girl, the brilliant and talented Tora Ziyal.
Relationships: Ezri Dax & Tora Ziyal, Ezri Dax/Tora Ziyal, Ezri Tigan/Tora Ziyal
Kudos: 3





	Young Americans

**Author's Note:**

> This was really fun to write and I hope it's just as fun to read! Chapter 2 is already in progress, no idea when it'll be up.

Ezri woke up to blaring horns and raucous laughter from the kitchen below her bedroom. Art Blakey. Doctor Sisko was in a good mood today.  
Stretching, she made her way over to the window. A fierce New England wind blew, creating sending vortices of autumnal leaves cascading down the cobblestone streets. The first time Ezri had gone out in those winds she nearly froze to death, despite Ben’s warnings. A few weeks later, this purebred West Coast girl was beginning to understand just how cold it could get even in the midday sun.  
She sniffed. Basil and garlic. Fennel seed? Could be. Ben was cooking. Nothing unusual in that, he cooked nearly every day. But Italian food? That was special occasion food. The Sisko household was a mere half hour’s walk and ten minutes by bike to the university. Sisko was kind enough to loan her his son’s bike while he was off at college himself. Yet Ezri was paying almost nothing in rent. She had heard horror stories of slumlords and the like who promised a cheap rent only to jack up utilities, ignore lease agreements, and all manner of class warfare, so when she first toured the Sisko residence she was extremely cautious. Yet Doctor Benjamin Sisko, Professor of Humanities, was as kind and welcoming a soul as she could have hoped for. The catch, it turned out, was the room’s location: immediately above the kitchen, Ben’s favorite room. Anyone too sensitive to sound or smell wouldn’t last a month. Luckily for Ezri, she’d grown up in a too-tiny apartment with her loud Jewish family, and the constant racket, the smell of food, and the blaring music only brought her peace of mind.  
After futzing with her hair and swapping her sleep shorts for jeans and her pajama shirt for an almost identical t-shirt, she came downstairs for some coffee.  
“Ms. Tigan!” Ben’s bellow practically rattled the floorboards. His grin was about a foot wide and a thousand lumens bright. “How are you this fine, Massachusetts morning?”  
“I’m alright, Professor. A little chilly” There was something lodged in Ezri’s brain, an inherent respect and deference to educators, that prevented her from calling him Ben or Benjamin to his face. After many weeks of being chided for “Dr. Sisko,” she had finally landed on “Professor,” a compromise both could abide by.  
“Indeed, indeed. Let me pour you some coffee.” Before Ezri could eke out thanks, there was a steaming cup in front of her. She clung to it, letting the heat flow back into her icy hands. “You and I are not meant for this kind of weather, Ezri. We’re warm weather people. Have I told you that back in New Orleans-”  
“-you sweat through your shorts on Christmas Day,” she said. She smiled at him over the mug.  
“Yes, yes, I suppose I do repeat myself. Academia tends to have that effect on you, after a while. You read the same paper over and over again from a hundred different students, you write the same articles for a dozen different journals, and you give the same lecture a thousand times. But it’s all worth it.”  
“To change the hearts and minds of the youth?” Ezri asked.  
“Hah! No, it’s all worth it to write that one big article that gets you paid well and finally, finally proves what an incomparable genius you are.”  
The two giggled into their cups. Ezri suspected they could hear Ben’s laugh in the next house over. Despite their age difference and only having known each other a couple months, the pair got along like old friends. She could confide in him, share her multitudinous woes and neuroses. Whenever there was something she didn’t want to do or a decision she didn’t want to make, the Professor always knew how to help her see what she had to do. In turn, Sisko valued her counsel, came to her with his academic and personal dilemmas. She was frank, even blunt, in a way that tickled him and sometimes she seemed to him wise beyond her years.  
“So what’s all this?” Ezri pointed at the stove where every burner was in operation, water boiling, tomatoes stewing, sausages frying.  
“This? Oh, it’s nothing,” Sisko said with a wave of the hand. Demure, sure, but Ezri suspected it was just a subtle way to show the flour coating his palms: he was even making pasta from scratch. “My son returns later today.”  
“The Jake Sisko is coming back tonight? Should I put on something special?” Ezri joked. The way Benjamin talked about his son, the writer away at some fancy-schmancy conservatory, you would think he was the next Kurt Vonnegut. Not to demean the kid. Ben had one of his stories framed and hung on the wall and it was pretty good, especially considering it was written when he was still in high school. It was cute how much he loved his son. She suspected his reason for renting out the spare bedroom had less to do with the income and more to do with keeping him company. “Wait, where is he going to sleep? Don’t I have his room?”  
“Oh, Jake’s a good sport. He’ll be happy to take the couch.”

~.~

“You gave her my room? Dad!”  
Uh oh. Ezri was standing on Dr. Sisko’s front porch, rooting through her satchel for the keys, when she heard the yelling. She couldn’t make out Ben’s low tones, but the other voice, Jake presumably, was very upset. She considered turning tail, waiting it out in a cafe, but it was freezing cold and frankly she couldn’t afford the cafes around here. She slipped in, quietly as she could.  
“Be reasonable, Jake-o, you- Ezri!” He caught her out of the side of his eye and called her over to the kitchen where he was sitting in the frail wood and wicker chair. “Come, come meet my son.”  
Ezri wanted to refuse, wanting absolutely no part in the Siskos’ family squabbles, not to mention the paper she had to write, but knew she couldn’t. Ben rose as she entered the kitchen.  
“Ezri Tigan, meet Jake Sisko. Jake, meet Ezri.”  
“How do you do,” Jake muttered sourly, avoiding her eyes as he shook her hand.  
“Pleasure to finally meet you,” Ezri chirped. She was going to die if she had to spend a minute in the crossfire of these two formidable willpowers. Reedy Jake towered over Ezri and even his dad, who stooped a little from so much time at his desk. He was toothpick slim and dressed in a positively ridiculous patterned sweater reminiscent of arcade carpeting. His skin glowed under the dangling yellow lightbulb on the ceiling. He ran a hand over his short-shorn hair. Uh oh, Ezri thought again. He’s cute.  
“I was just telling Jake what the sleeping arrangements were going to be,” Sisko said. The tone of his voice left no room for alterations in his plan. “You’ll sleep in your room-”  
“-my room,” Jake muttered.  
“-The upstairs bedroom,” Sisko continued, “and Jake-o will take my bed. I’ll have the couch.”  
“Dad, no!”  
“Are you sure, Professor?”  
“Dad, your back. You can’t sleep on the couch,” Jake said.  
“Well, like you said, it is a little rude for you to come all the way back from Iowa just for me to make you sleep in the living room,” Sisko said. Ezri wised up quickly. She hadn’t heard this play from Sisko before but she was all too familiar with it from her own mother. Jake Sisko had booked a ride on a short, sweet, and effective guilt trip.  
“No, Dad,” Jake relented through gritted teeth. “I’ll take the couch. It’s fine. Ezri can have my- can have the bedroom, you sleep in your bed. It’s fine.”  
“Wonderful!” Sisko clapped his hands. “I’ve already put sheets and a towel out for you.”  
“Dad!” Jake cried.  
“What? Now, both of you, help me prepare for dinner. Jake, you know where the tablecloths are.”

Ezri Tigan was good at many things. She was a good student, an excellent one in fact. She was a pretty good guitar player, nothing to go crazy over but she could play a tune. She kicked ass at roller derby. She was adept at sublimating personal trauma, that was for sure.  
The whistles and hums and ah-hahs! coming from the kitchen did nothing to combat the absolutely oppressive silence in the dining room and the scowl on Jake’s face as they fumbled over the linen tablecloth. Ezri knew had to think. She had to come up with something good. If she didn’t, she would panic and say something extremely stupid. It had been known to happen. She glanced around, looking for salvation. There!  
“I like your story,” she said.  
“My story?” Jake asked.  
“The one on the wall.” She pointed at the triptych frame, in each a yellowing piece of printer paper with size .12 Times New Roman font, together making up the short story “the Colonel and the Shapeshifter,” by one Jake Sisko.  
“Dad!” Jake cried, his hands on his hips.  
“What?” He called back from the kitchen.  
“Do you have to keep that dumb old story up on the wall?”  
Ben Sisko poked his head around the corner. “I like that story. And, I’ll have you know, my guests do too. Tell him, Ezri.”  
“It’s true,” she said as the Professor disappeared back into his kitchen. “It’s really good. The characters are great, the prose is really exciting, and it’s such an original idea. Only…” There she went again, her big mouth getting ahead of her brain.  
“Only what?” Jake’s hackles were raised, clearly.  
“Well, I don’t see them getting together in the end. I don’t know, I just don’t buy it.” Ezri! She screamed internally. What did we agree on? Think before we speak, yeah? She winced, preparing for trouble.  
Jake nodded. Ezri wasn’t sure, but was that a smile?  
“You’re probably right. I wasn’t too familiar with romance at the time, I just thought that was how stories ended you know? The guy gets the girl and all that.”  
“Yeah, but they’re just so, oh, I don’t know…”  
“Gay?” Jake offered. Ezri blanched.  
“Well, I suppose. Yes,” she said, forcing away her shyness. “They just don’t read as straight. I mean, the butch, ass-kicking space marine and the misunderstood lonely heart?”  
Jake chuckled. “You’re probably right. I was pretty deep in the closet when I wrote that.”

After that, the tension evaporated. Ezri had made a few acquaintances since transferring to the University this fall but she was, somehow, totally lacking in queer friends. It was a particular type of camaraderie without which she felt cold and isolated. She made no secret of her sexuality, even managing to bring a guest or two over to her bedroom. Sisko left them well enough alone, and she felt safe around him, safe enough even to vent about romantic troubles when she needed, but having someone else like herself around was like a warm ray of light. Jake, she learned quickly, came out to Ben during his own Freshman year of college. Ben was unsurprised. Jake had a boyfriend, Nog, who was currently in the army.  
“Don’t make that face, dad,” Jake said. Ben was placing a heaping, steaming bowl of spaghetti bolognese on the table.  
“What face?” Ben played innocent, pouring Ezri and himself a glass of wine and a much smaller one for his son. He would let the rules about underage drinking bend for his guest and roomer, but not his son.  
“You don’t approve?” Ezri asked. This was a new wrinkle, and possibly an unfortunate one.  
“Who said I don’t approve? Give me your plate.” Ben scooped out pasta onto her plate, motioning and arbiting with the tongs. “Nog is a good boy, well mannered and a hard worker. I just wish he wasn’t so naive.”  
“Dad doesn’t like the army,” Jake explained. “He used to be in the marines.”  
“What?” Ezri’s eyes widened. Nothing about Ben’s expressive yet considered attitude, his rants about cooking, literature, and politics, his decor of Modern and Contemporary American and African art fit in with this biographical tidbit.  
“It was a long time ago,” Ben explained.  
“He washed out,” Jake whispered.  
“I did not wash out,” Ben said. “I was, well, I was discharged. The Corps and I disagreed about certain things.”  
“Such as?” Ezri asked, her food forgotten.  
“Such as the sovereign rights of nations and the dubiousness of certain pre-war claims.”  
“Dad, can I show her?” Jake asked.  
“Show me what?” Ezri asked.  
“If it means we can move on to another topic, sure,” Ben said, solemnly picking at his food. “I don’t love reminiscing about those days.”  
Jake bolted out of his seat, returning less than a minute later with what looked like a leather bound diploma case. He passed it to Ezri. Inside was a certificate of Honorable Discharge from the Marine Corps, onto which someone had sharpied the prefix “DIS” in big block letters.  
“Your addition?” Ezri asked.  
“No,” Ben said. “A friend.” He stared at her over his wine glass. She wasn’t sure, but his eyes looked a bit misty. “You remind me of her, you know.”

~.~

“Good morning, Ms. Tigan.” Ben slid a bowl of oatmeal and a hot cup of coffee to her. He was all dressed up, tie, wool sweater, ill-fitting slacks, the academic’s tuxedo. Jake was already eating, leafing through a well-loved paperback.  
“Off somewhere?” She asked groggily. Dinner had involved its fair share of red wine and good times, and it was only after that she remembered her paper. A couple midnights cups of coffee and very little sleep later, she wasn’t feeling her best self.  
“A conference in New York. I have a train to catch.”  
Jake and Ezri wished him luck as he sped out the door, leaving conspicuous quiet in his wake.  
“So,” Jake said. He closed the book, some second- or third-hand poetry collection, and turned to face her. “What are your plans for the day?”  
Ezri shrugged. “Nothing much. I’ve got to study for this bio midterm on Tuesday and some German conjugations.”  
“Good!” Jake clapped his hands, a little gesture that was evidently heritable. “So you’re free to go out.”  
“Oh, well, I don’t know-” Ezri began.  
“Come on! It’ll be a good time. You’re still new to the area, right?” Ezri nodded. “Great! I can show you all the good spots. Then you can show your classmates and they’ll think you’re some genius with insider knowledge.”

~.~

The day’s agenda was as follows: first a cup of coffee at Jake’s favorite neighborhood eatery, a tiny old cafe that was less a store of its own than something squeezed between two other stores. The coffee was bitter and strong, indefatigable by any amount of sugar or cream. Then the bookshop where Ben used to work when he was still a student. It still had photos of him on the walls, and was one of the few non-academic bookshops where you could buy Professor Sisko’s publications. Ezri found some magnificent old tome of psychological texts, all of which had been thoroughly repudiated and dismissed in subsequent decades, but still she found it irresistible.  
“What are you going to do with that?” Jake teased. “It looks so old that it probably still has female hysteria as a diagnosable condition.”  
“I like it! It has history!” Ezri protested, handing over a crumpled twenty in exchange for the hefty hardcover and a tote bag with the shop’s logo printed on it to carry the thing. Jake knew better than anyone the value of a book you’d buy but never read, and one of his favorite activities was to bring someone new to this bookstore and see what useless junk they wouldn’t be able to walk away without. It said a lot about someone.  
After that, a short trip downtown and lunch at a quiet sandwich shop on a narrow side street. Mayo and vinegar spilled out onto their hands as they desperately tried to contain the leaks with napkin after napkin.  
“What’s next?” Ezri asked with a mouthful of swiss and mortadella.  
“Do you like art?” Jake asked, pulling something up on his phone.  
“Sure, I guess.” She shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”  
Jake shook his head and sighed dramatically. “You’d be surprised. Anyway, I’m willing to bet you’ve never actually set foot inside the university museum.”  
Ezri smiled sheepishly.  
“That’s what I thought. They have an incredible collection. It should be mandatory viewing for all the students at the university.”  
“Why do I suspect you’re just parroting the elder Sisko?”  
“Hey, the old man isn’t wrong about everything!”

About a century and a half ago, an aristocratic family, sensing the changing winds of history, sought to clean up their well-earned reputation of commercial vulturism, environmental destruction, and chattel slavery by leaving a sizable endowment to the university, then in its infancy. Among this generous gift was their estate, a grandiose, labyrinthine structure of marble and red brick. Then it was something of a farmhouse, in one of the few more or less flat stretches of the New England city. Now it serves as the university’s art museum, and has as its neighbors other university admin buildings, banks, condos, and a pristine new skyscraper owned by one leasing company or another.  
Ezri and Jake got in for free, her a student and him family of faculty, and decided to splurge a buck or two on the coat check rather than sweating through the museum. The entrance was an impressive archway of plaster and marble, some attempt to show off to the Jeffersonian neo-classical buildings down south. After a few months in the ridiculously nice libraries and class buildings, Ezri thought she’d seen it all, but here was yet more splendor for her West Coast eye. Jake caught her gawking up at the ceiling and tugged on her arm.  
“C’mon, this isn’t even the museum proper, it’s just the foyer,” he said.  
“You know,” Ezri said with a soft, spellbound voice. “I don’t think we even have foyers in my neighborhood.”  
While both these well-educated, cosmopolitan young people were eager to see the art, neither were very opinionate about the stuff. As such, they simply slipped into the first gallery they came across and found themselves in the 1800s, where American painters embraced Realism, portraying the highs and lows of their new nation in oil and watercolor, creating out of whole cloth the culture they lacked when compared to other, older countries. But the paintings were not what caught Ezri Tigan’s eye.  
“Whoa, where are you going?” Jake asked as Ezri dodged behind a wall, practically running away. “We can go to another section if you want. I think they have more modern stuff on the third floor.”  
“You gotta hide me!” Ezri whispered.  
“What?” Jake asked, concerned. “What are you talking about?”  
“Do you see that woman? Neck length black hair, blue dress?” Ezri motioned to where she’d seen her. Jake craned his neck around the wall.  
“Yeah, sure, why?”  
“That’s Tora Ziyal!” Ezri said, waving her hands emphatically.  
“Who?” Jake asked, becoming frustrated.  
“Tora Ziyal,” Ezri repeated. “She’s the most gorgeous girl in any of my classes.”  
Jake laughed. “I thought someone was trying to kill you! You just have a crush?”  
“Shush!” Ezri popped him one on the bicep. “Don’t be so loud, she’ll hear you.”  
“You’re a weird one, you know that, Ezri Tigan?” Jake was still chuckling softly, bemused at Ezri’s helpless gay panic.  
“What’s she doing?” Ezri ignored him, trying to get a look at Ziyal without being seen.  
“It looks like she’s drawing that painting there,” Jake said. “You should go talk to her.”  
“What?” Ezri spat. “Are you crazy? She’ll think I’m insane, she’ll think I’m stalking her.”  
“Ezri, two minutes ago you had no idea she was here,” Jake said. “Half an hour ago you didn’t even know this museum existed.”  
“Well, still, I’m not wearing anything nice,” Ezri pulled at her sweater.  
“Oh, shut up, you look great. Now, either go talk to her or walk away because we’re starting to get looks hiding in the corner.”  
“Okay, I’ll walk away then,” Ezri said hopefully.  
“Wrong answer.” Jake put his hand on her shoulder and gently spun her around. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Um, hey there.” Ezri squeaked. Jake stood in front of a portrait a few yards away, pretending not to eavesdrop. No response. “Hey there!” Ezri piped up. Too loud? Was she too loud? Oh my god, did she shout? Was she shouting?  
Tora Ziyal looked up from her sketchpad and blinked vaguely, filling the rest of the room back in. “Oh, hey!” She said, cheerily. “I know you! From Doctor Garak’s English class right? Don’t tell me, I know it. Um,” she bit her lip thinking. Ezri, tormented by the fires of hell during that pause, was about to ignore orders and answer when: “Ezri! I remember because it’s such a cool name.”  
Ezri blushed. If the building came down on her just then, she’d be satisfied with her life.  
“Yeah, that’s right. And you’re Tora? Tora Ziyal?” She said, pretending she didn’t damn well know already.  
“Yeah, but my friends just call me Ziyal.” She put her charcoal stick down. Oh my god, ZIYAL, that’s so cool, she’s so cool.  
“So. You’re an artist?” Ezri tried.  
“Trying to be,” Ziyal replied. “I’m actually in the art school, but I take a couple of classes at the university to get my gen eds. Way more interesting than the ones at the art school. What are you up to? Some assignment?”  
“No, actually.” She stuck a thumb over her shoulder and pointed at Jake, who had been waiting for his cue. “My friend Jake here is showing me around the town.” He waved and came over.  
“Hey there,” he said, extending a hand to shake.  
“Ah, um,” Ziyal held up her hands. Both were completely covered in charcoal dust.  
“Got it,” Jake nodded and bumped his elbow against hers. “Jake Sisko.”  
“Tora Ziyal.”  
“Jake grew up here, so he knows all sorts of spots,” Ezri said.  
“Oh yeah?” Ziyal raised an eyebrow. “Do you know the museum very well?”  
“Like the back of my hand.” He grinned. “Care for a tour?”  
“Oh, no,” Ezri said. “We shouldn’t take Ziyal’s time, she’s working.”  
“No, I’m just killing time here for a bit. I work at a bar on Third and my shift doesn’t start for another forty minutes.”  
Oh god she’s a bartender? Ezri tried not to scream.  
“I’d love a tour,” Ziyal said.  
“Really?” Ezri asked, incredulous.  
“Yes,” Ziyal insisted with a laugh.  
“Come on, let me show you my dad’s favorite section, it’s just a couple rooms over.” Jake ushered them on like Washington across the Delaware. Ziyal followed right behind him. Ezri, stunned, stood there wondering what the fuck was happening, before she ran to catch up to them.


End file.
